The End

To modify a phrase from our esteemed First Lady, For the first time in my life I’m ashamed to be an American.

Yesterday was the surest sign I’ve seen that this country is lost.  And for the first time I’m not sure we can ever win her back.

The worst President in the history of our country, who added trillions of dollars in debt, who lied about pulling us out of one war while sticking our noses in multiple other regional conflicts (usually on the wrong side).  Who didn’t improve our economy one iota in four years.  Who saddled us with a socialized medicine program that is destined to fail just as badly as every other attempt across the world.

AND WE RE-ELECTED HIM!!!!!!!!!!

This country is well and truly fucked.  And you know what?  We deserve it.

—

I don’t know what to do next.

And that’s why I’m going on sabbatical.  Until I know what the fuck to do with my life and with my country I’m not going to waste time writing frivolous shit.  I’ll re-post some of my old stories from time to time so the page doesn’t go totally dark (does WordPress shut down blogs if they go dormant??), but for now I have nothing new to say that won’t just be angry, violent, possibly illegal ranting and calling to arms.

So good-bye for now.  Good luck to all of you.  I’m getting a gun tomorrow.

 

No More Memorials, Part 2

It’s not very often that I thank Muslims for anything.  But I have to give my heartfelt thanks to the animals in Libya and Egypt that validated everything I wrote yesterday.

Once again, Islam has proven itself incompatible with the rest of the civilized world.  Once again, they have proven that there are only two choices left to us: 1) Give up our most fundamental freedoms, such as the First Amendment, to avoid angering a rabidly violent and backward people.  Or 2) fucking take them out.

Make no mistake about it, this is a clash of civilizations, of values, of the very evolution of mankind.  Will we go backwards as a society, giving up the freedom of speech, of expression, of civilized debate?  Or will we finally stand up and say enough is enough, that Islam has had 13 centuries to evolve and has steadfastly refused  to move in the direction of tolerance and peace?

I can already hear the pussified left (and equally pussified right) out there calling me a bigot, a warmonger, a proponent of genocide.  But let me ask you, are there still Japanese walking the earth today?  What about Germans?  Didn’t we wage war on them just 70 years ago?  And didn’t our own President (a Democrat, by the way) publicly state that the only acceptable outcome to that war was “unconditional surrender?”  And yet, somehow we didn’t have to wipe every German, Japanese and Italian off the face of the earth.

(*Side note: Take a little time and research what side most Muslims were on during World War II.  Islamists and Nazis have always been in bed together.  Read more here.)

So when I say we have to go to war with Islam, that does not mean I am advocating the extermination of all Muslims on this earth.  Just like my German grandfather served in the US Army during World War II, many Muslims will no doubt decide to throw their lot in with the side of freedom, tolerance and human rights.  But it does mean that all Muslims will, at least until vetted, be suspect.  Because we can no longer afford to be so naive as to think that all Muslims in this country are on our side.  Indeed, even Muslims serving in our armed forces have shown that they can be our sworn enemies (see Nidal Malik Hasan, the Fort Hood shooter, or Asan Akbar.)

Yes, all Muslims here in the United States must be vetted.  Because we have been asleep at the wheel for far too long, we have stuck our heads in the sand while “peace-loving” Muslims like Hesham Hadayet, John Allen Muhammed and Lee Boyd Malvo, Mohammed Taheri-Azar, Naveed Afzal Haq, Rashid Baz, Omeed Aziz Popal and countless others have been waging war against us.  A war the government, both Republicans and Democrats, have tried to sweep under the rug with the complicity of the mainstream media.

The time for talking is over.  The time for memorials is still in the future.  After we have finished the job.  Now is the time for war.

No More Memorials

Today marks the 11th anniversary of 9/11, which means you have probably spent about 98% of your day being bombarded with eulogies, remembrances, moments of silence, somber reflections, and heartfelt pontifications on one of the most sinister attacks ever on our nation.

Well, not here.  I’m done with memorializing 9/11.

Because I’m tired of empty words and emptier promises.  I’m sick of snivelling, whiny pussies talking about the tragedy of 9/11.  9/11 was not a tragedy, it was an outrage.  It was a war crime.  A tragedy is when someone comes down with some inexplicable disease for no discernible reason.  This was an attack, perpetrated by an evil religion that hasn’t evolved one iota from its inception 13 centuries ago.

Until this nation begins to take the war with Islam* seriously, paying tribute to the victims of 9/11 is like paying tribute to a murder victim while steadfastly refusing to investigate their killer.

Do you think our grandparents stopped on December 7th, 1944 to pay tribute to the victims of Pearl Harbor?  No, because they were too busy AVENGING it!!!!!!!!  The time for honoring and remembering and paying tribute is after you’ve made sure it won’t happen again.  But somehow this generation has missed that step.  We’ve gone straight from getting kicked in the nuts to remembering how bad it felt to get kicked in the nuts, without doing a goddamn thing to make sure we don’t get kicked in the nuts again.

I’ll rant more on this later, I just had to get that off my chest.

—

*Notice I didn’t say the War on Terror.  Make no mistake about it, this is a war of cultures.  On one side you have Islam, which is currently engaged in some form of terror and/or warfare on every inhabited continent in the world.  Muslims are currently waging “holy wars” against Christians, Jews, Buddhists, Hindus, and every other religion that has dared to try and exist within shouting distance of the religion of Hate.  Islam is the one common denominator in roughly 95% of the world’s conflicts today.  At some point we have to put our political correctness aside and call a spade a spade.  Or, in this case, a Muslim a murdering soulless murderer bent on world domination.

Stripper Bocce

My buddy Manscape introduced me to this game and I owe him mightily for it.  It is perhaps the greatest bar game ever invented.  We call it Stripper Bocce!

Those of you who aren’t familiar with regular bocce ball or lawn bowling (I know, I know, the two aren’t exactly the same, but for simple Midwestern drunkards like myself they’re close enough), the most simple way to explain the rules is this: You have a target and everyone tries to get their ball closest to the target.  This can be done either by throwing your own ball closest or by knocking your opponent’s ball away from the target.

Stripper Bocce takes this game out of the field and into everyone’s favorite place, the strip club!  Instead of balls, you throw wadded up one-dollar bills.  Your target is the stripper pole.  And the stripper?  Well, she’s part of the field of play.  If she kicks your perfectly thrown dollar bill across the stage, well, them’s the breaks.

The best way to play this game is with a lot of friends and a lot of alcohol.  Typically, each person gets one throw per performance (typically two songs, or 5-6 minutes), and then you pay the winner another dollar bill after each round.  So it costs you $2 for each round, but with the potential of winning a chunk of your money back when you win.

Now, you might think strippers would take offense at this game, but just remember, they’re getting paid!  All those bills you throw at them go into their pocket, and they aren’t even subjected to the typical sleazo strip club patron who insists on slipping the dollar into their thong while lewdly feeling them up.  So really, it’s a win-win for everyone.

A few tips I’ve learned in my short time playing this game:

-Wait til the back end of the stripper’s performance to make your throw.  The longer your bill is laying on the ground, the greater the chance the stripper will kick it out of play.

-Control your emotions.  We’re all competitive, we all like to win, and we all like to drink and hoot and holler with the guys.  But be careful.  When your perfectly placed dollar bill is inadvertently kicked away by a stripper doing the splits, it’s best not to gasp or scream or jump out of your chair like you’ve just seen a horror movie.  Strippers tend to think you’re reacting to them and might just freak out thinking there’s something wrong with their hoo-ha.

-Women are more than welcome to play Stripper Bocce, but I would highly recommend making special rules that they cannot befriend the strippers.  I’ve seen plenty of collusion, where the girls make friends with the strippers and encourage them to not-so-subtly kick the guys’ bills out of play and give an unfair advantage to the girls.

-While everybody loves a great strip bar, Stripper Bocce makes even shitty strip clubs worthwhile.  Let’s be honest, there are few things worse than a bad strip club (see my story Palm Springs- Where Strippers Go To Die), when you find yourself staring at girls that just shouldn’t be taking their clothes off for money (or taking their clothes off at all, ever).  But with the added excitement of gambling, even ugly strippers can become a source of entertainment!

-And lastly, if a stripper should happen to slip and fall on your dollar bill, run for the hills and never look back.

Enjoy!

Happy Communist Workers’ Holiday Weekend

Kind of a fitting lead in to the Democratic National Convention.

I’m off to the backwoods of Wisconsin to celebrate. They better have cable so I can watch some college football!

Operation: Jayhawk Down, Part IV

Watching the Olympics reminded me it’s been awhile since I continued the sad story of my quest to bang a water polo player.  Catch up with Parts 1, 2 and 3.

—

This one is painful.  As you will recall, the plan was to call Julie Monday when she got back from her weekend of drunken debauchery.  Our previous phone conversations had gone so well that I wasn’t even dreading the prospect of using my most hated form of communication.  The plan was simple: after exchanging pleasantries, asking about her weekend, yada yada yada, if the conversation was going well I’d go for the Big Date.  If I wasn’t feeling the vibe, a tactical retreat and just another group outing to some fine drinking establishment would be an acceptable consolation prize.

But then something happened.  Although I had seen Julie in my building maybe two or three times in four years, I ran into her and two of her friends Monday afternoon.  I was totally unprepared.  At first things went well, everyone made fun of her puking episode, there were a few laughs about the whereabouts of my shirt (I was a little hurt she didn’t sleep in it, but I guess it’s a little soon for that).  Her friends were friendly, even Casey, so I took that as a good sign.  But when we parted ways, when she said, “Alright, I’ll see you later,” rather than saying something smooth like “Yeah, I’ll call ya,” or, better yet, something really ambitious like, “What are you doing tonight?  I’ll give you call,” I just went along like a fucking doofus and said, “Yeah, I’ll see ya later!”

Don’t mind me, I’m just a fucking moron.

As soon as I said it I knew I had fucked it up.  But by then it was too late.  I left kicking myself at my stupidity.  Visions of Mikey from Swingers flashed through my head, sulking away saying, “She didn’t like me, alright?”

I called Tripod and explained the situation, concluding with my analysis that I now couldn’t call her any earlier than Wednesday.  Tripod agreed.  “That sucks, dude.  It’s not the end of the world, but it’s a setback.”

“Like a sack on 1st and 10,”

“Exactly.  But you can still recover.”

*              *              *

Tuesday I had a long talk with my friend  Country and broke it all down for her.  She listened sympathetically without laughing too much at my bumbling stupidity.  But then she broke out a disturbing piece of gossip that, if true, could change the entire course of the game.  She claimed her roommate, a baseball player, had fooled around with her a little a while back but had backed out because he thought she was a virgin.

My heart stopped.  “She what?” I stuttered.

“Yeah, he said he didn’t want to take her V card.”

“Did he…did he, did he know this for sure?”

“No, but he suspected.”

“How, how long ago was this?” I asked, hoping she’d say something like freshman year.

“Last fall.”

“Jesus Christ, I’m too old for this, Country.”

*              *              *

That Friday we started the conference softball tournament.  Three days of fat lesbians bunting their way around the bases.  I don’t even like baseball, but softball is like the Special Olympics version of baseball.  To make matters worse, day one was set to be a quadruple header.  Every single game ran long, so they finally delayed the final game when darkness fell.  I didn’t get home until after 9.

I had pretty much decided not to call until Friday after my stage fright moment on Monday.  Make her wait a little bit, maybe wonder if I was still interested.  But then, during the day while I was running back and forth between the softball field and the Athletics building, I ran into Kenny, the assistant coach.  He told me they were heading out to the ‘Comber again.  I kind of blew him off, giving him the “I have to work early tomorrow,” excuse.  But just as I was walking out of his office, I ran into Julie.  Now remember, prior to this week I had seen her in the building maybe three times in four years.  Now I was bumping into her for the second time in a week.  Maybe it was a sign?  She also gave me the word about the Beachcomber, and I again gave the noncommittal answer, but inside I was already making up my mind to go.

As soon as I got home I started drinking.  A couple shots, then a stiff cocktail for the shower, and I was feeling pretty good by the time Will The Mormon picked me up at 10.  We rounded up Tripod and headed out.

Not a whole lot of exciting details this time.  As usual she was somewhat intoxicated, and her friend Casey was shitfaced.  I bought Casey a shot and got a few laughs out of her.  Julie was wearing her “Not Everything is Flat in Kansas”  shirt again, and goddamn she looked good (even with no boobs to speak of).  It was a much more low key night, no dancing or any of that bullshit, just hanging out and drinking.  Hot Hippie was there again, and again she monopolized Julie’s time; clearly I was going to have to have a talk with that girl about wingman responsibilities.

Eventually, Casey was so belligerent she got kicked out, so we went outside to wait for a roommate to come pick them up.  Casey was getting bitchy again, and Tripod was trying to distract her while I worked my magic.  Unfortunately, I was somewhat intoxicated and said in full-on Loud Drunk mode, “Julie, why doesn’t Casey like me?”  That started her on a tirade, and poor Tripod had to pull out all the stops to calm her down and keep her away.  Only a bean and cheese burrito from the taco stand next door saved my life.

While we were waiting for their ride and Casey was gorging herself, I finally got a few minutes of quality time.  I was shitfaced and thus smooth as ever.  She had mentioned earlier in the night that she was going out of town for the weekend, so I put my arms around her and asked “When should I call you?”

“Whenever you feel like it,” she answered with a slightly devious smile.

“No,” I said, firmly “when should I call you?”

“Well, I’m having surgery Wednesday on my knee.”

“So…when should I call you?”

“Whenever, really.”

“No, don’t give me that shit.  When do you want me to call you?”

She finally succumbed to my charm, or something like that.  “Call me Wednesday night.”

“Alright,” I said.  “You gonna be hopped up on vicadin?”

“Probably.”

“Sweet.”  And for my efforts I was rewarded with a big hug and a kiss on the cheek.

Are you fucking kidding me?  This shit is getting old.

*              *              *

I got home around 1:30 and had to be at work at 6:30 again Saturday.  The delayed game from the previous day went 14 innings, basically fucking the schedule for the rest of the weekend.  I made Country drive me in the golf cart to her apartment where I pounded two beers just to take the edge off.

Just what in the fuck do I have to do to get a fucking kiss???

Nagasaki Day and Other Random Thoughts

I feel kinda bad for Nagasaki.  You would think having an atomic bomb dropped on your would bring you a certain amount of notariety.  But kind of like the second man to walk on the moon (anybody?  anybody? Buzz Aldrin.), poor Nagasaki will always be the forgotten city.  But just remember this: Japan didn’t surrender after Hiroshima; it took Nagasaki for the emperor to come crawling on his knees begging MacArthur for mercy.

—

In other news, I’m settling in here in Minnesota.  Still no job but I’m workin’ on it.  The girlfriend is happy, the dogs are happy, so all in all things are going pretty well.

Last week we drove to downtown St. Paul to try an Italian place the girlfriend had heard good things about.  I love Italian food.  Maybe it’s because of The Godfather, but I’m pretty sure I could live on pasta indefinitely.  Unfortunately, this place was average at best.  But the good news is they make an excellent cannoli.

So the night wasn’t a total loss.  If I can find some Chicago style pizza this place might be liveable.

—

Lastly, fantasy football is coming up fast.  I admit I’m woefully unprepared this year.  Haven’t done the hours of research and numbers-crunching I usually do.  But most importantly, I need a new team name for my Minnesota-based franchise.  Any ideas?  Something about frozen wastelands or 10,000 algae-covered lakes, or mosquitos as big as small birds.  I’m open to suggestions.

Happy Hiroshima Day!

Remember the good ol’ days when we used to end wars?  Y’know, by actually defeating our enemy?  As opposed to now, when we just fight for a little while, then declare “Mission accomplished.”

And don’t forget to celebrate Nagasaki Day on Thursday!

When is it OK for a Man to Cry?

I can only think of four appropriate times:

#1- Sports.  It’s ok to cry when your favorite sports team loses in the championship game.  Or when your favorite player retires.  Getting choked up is also acceptable when they win it all.  However, crying over a regular season loss (or even an early-round playoff exit) is going too far.  Unless you’re a Cubs fan.  Then feel free to cry for the rest of your life.

—

#2- When someone murders your school’s mascot.  When political correctness takes away the one and only thing that made the second-rate university you call your alma mater special or unique.

—

#3- When anything bad happens to your pet.  Again, getting choked up is acceptable when grieving the loss of a parent, spouse, child or close relative (or even a friend for that matter), but crying is only allowed if it’s your four-legged companion that is sick or dead.  Because let’s face it, nobody loves you as much as your dog.

—

#4- And last, when Mick dies in Rocky III.  Nothing else needs to be said.  Saddest moment in movie history.  (And I’ve seen Atonement.)

Doin’ the Ol’ Knuckle Shuffle on the Piss Pump

I have a friend who told me once that although he’s right-handed he masturbates with his left. Because, as he put it, “I’m too good with my right, I want it to last.”

That must be one really talented hand!